The Thousand-Year Dream

Natali Petricic

The doctor informed him that he had, at best, a decade to live. Test results and “lifestyle changes” needed to be discussed. In spite of his moniker, the Stari Detectiv never really considered himself stari. Old. He had had the nickname for over three decades. Amongst his people, it had followed him from the homeland to America.

Sitting on the examining table he felt more like a small boy instead of a towering sixty-two year old. Typically in stellar health, he despised doctors, and rarely sought their help. Except for the occasional bullet wound or gash, he considered them useless. But lately he hadn’t been feeling like himself. With a full head of thick hair, peppered with silver strands, acquaintances often thought he was in his early fifties. The Old Detective narrowed his dark eyes at the learned man, looked him up and down with a quick sweep, noting the doctor’s scuffed and worn leather shoes. Humble beginnings, perhaps. “How do you know for certain?”

The doctor sighed. “Let’s begin with the symptoms: high-blood pressure, angina pectoris, diabetes, your liver…” The man continued, but the Old Detective didn’t listen. He had suspected as much. These suspicions had led him to this medical office on a sunny day in May of 1980, three days after Josip Broz Tito passed away in his sleep.

“Sir,” the physician said. “Are you listening?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He liked how the Americans accepted this small phrase for both large and little violations.

“You drink,” the doctor said while writing.

“A little.”

“It wasn’t a question,” the doctor said. “You have to stop. Your liver…”

There were days he liked to drink a little. Or a lot. But never to the point of puking like Grubić, never like some disgraceful drunk shaming the family.

The doctor gave him a paper with directives. Health changes he needed to make. The Old Detective folded it in half and placed it in his breast pocket.

He had expected more to come of Tito’s death—an explosion, a coup, the collapse of Socialism— something big. But as the days passed, his eyes scanning the Yugoslavian newspapers he acquired in Astoria, he learned of no revolt. His ears and eyes turned to the American news, and this also brought forth little information. He was tired of hearing about the Blue Train carrying the leader’s body from Ljubljana to Belgrade. He was sick of seeing images of weeping women dressed in black, lamenting the loss of their beloved leader. He wanted details, damnit. After all, wasn’t Tito the one artificially holding Yugoslavia together? Wasn’t the country already a frayed blanket, ready to come apart with one quick tug of the string?

His daughter and son-in-law had moved from Long Island to Washington state years ago, leaving

sorrow perched in his heart. The Old Detective and his wife called them every Sunday, May 4th being no exception.

He paced the kitchen, the receiver pressed up hard against his ear. A rustling over the phone lines, then Branko saying, “My esteemed father-in-law, kako si?”

“Did you hear? Certainly, you heard about him?” His heart pounded so fiercely he wouldn’t have been surprised if the angina took him.

“I heard,” Branko said. “And?”

“What do you mean, and? And my ass. Something is going to happen. Something is going to change. Soon.”

“Tata, if something changes in the next ten years, then I will give you every penny I have in the bank.”

“How can you say that?”

“How can I not say it? Nakon Tita bit će Tito. After Tito there will be Tito. You ever heard that?”

“Of course they say it, but how tightly could he have wound his tentacles around his subordinates? Plus, there’s only one Tito. Believe me, I saw him numerous times. No one possesses his charisma.”

Branko sighed. “Ten years, Tata, ten years. Minimum.”

The Old Detective pursed his lips. He said good-bye to his son-in-law. Pouring himself a shot of rakija, he sniffed the pungent liquor. In the background, his wife rambled on about his liver, the diabetes. He looked at the transparent liquid. To hell with it. The hard living in the past, the parties, the smoking, the fights, all of this contributed to the state of affairs inside his body. But just this one, to calm the nerves.

If something changes in the next ten years. His son-in-law’s words replayed through his head. Ten years. Imagine: Croatia an independent nation again after almost a millennium! If he only had ten years left to him, he might miss it. He would miss his Hrvatska being restored. He would miss the thousandyear dream coming to fruition.

In the service he had been taught to compartmentalize his feelings. There were family, friends, home but nothing to interfere with duty to domovina. The homeland, SFRJ: Socialist Republic of Jugoslavija. He fought in the war on the partisan side. A united Yugoslavia was still better than a central Dalmatia annexed by the Italians. Each time he was in Zadar, a wave of nausea filled him to see the Italian flags flying over the government offices in the People’s Square.

Once the war was over, he rose in the ranks. Eventually he was stationed at Brioni in the Coast Guard, patrolling the Adriatic for defectors. Brioni was Tito’s island. Yes, his job entailed roughing up people, interrogating them. It was complicated. It was for the safety of the nation. He swore not to discuss his work. Of course, many on his home island of Premuda whispered that he was Udba, the secret police. Even his own wife questioned his affiliations.

“Please, I need to know,” she had said one night on a visit home. Her lean body was turned toward the window, her back to him. It was a stormy night, the type of night that made their isolated location feel like it was the last station on Earth before heaven. With the village teetering on a hilltop, the storm blocking

their view of the only neighboring island, it seemed like nothing but angry sea raged around them, the black water swirling below, slapping the cliffs.

He had her quickly, hastily, and then they spoke in the dark, not even a candle ablaze, the wind beating against thin panes of glass.

“Please, I promise I won’t say anything,” she said. “I need to know if what they say is true.”

“Who is they?”

“Grubić. When I go to the market, and he has been drinking.” She paused, as if afraid of him or Grubić, or both. Her body seemed so small to him, insignificant, as if he could roll on top of her and smother her in his sleep without the slightest struggle. He pushed these thoughts away.

“My dear, Grubić is a drunk and a second-rate informant at best. Why do you listen to him?”

“That’s what I figured. I shouldn’t let him affect me,” she said.

“No. You shouldn’t.”

Within minutes, he could hear her easy, even breathing, heading towards deep sleep. But he lay awake, eyes adjusted to the dark, staring at the white walls he had meticulously repainted over the summer vacation. The violent rain whipped against the house, and the waves crashed at the base of the cliff. The wind seemed to move the house. Windows vibrated. Floor boards creaked.

This house, the home he was born into, was the first and only house visible from the pier below, the pier built into a slight cove, where the ferry stopped twice a day—once going to the city before sunrise, and the other time coming from the city at dusk. It was an old white house, overlooking the water as if a sentry at the foot of the village. Long ago it was one house, now divided into three separate homes. His father, grandfather, great-grandfather—who knew how far back the tradition went?—they were all sea captains. So that’s what he became. Being on the boat was as natural as walking on land. But before the Seafaring Academy, there was the war.

He smiled, thinking about how happily he had entered the Partisans with his cousin at the age of seventeen. His four brothers were already in America, working. His cousin had become a brother to him. Oh, how ignorant they were. He remembered the battles their rag-tag regiment won against the Ustashe and Mussolini’s black shirts. Until, of course, the battle. Every soldier eventually encountered the battle that broke all the illusions.

They were lying on their bellies, shooting at the devils. Bullets flew by too frequently; they were outnumbered. One entered and exited his arm, missing an artery by mere centimeters, he later learned. Even as he agonized, winding a bandana around his arm, as he was taught during training, he spoke to his cousin, assuring him they’d find a way out. But his cousin was quiet, in the midst of the shouting and shooting and gunpowder stench and smoke filling his lungs. After securing the wrap, he nudged his cousin. Receiving no response, he rolled him over. His was unrecognizable. A bullet to the head: blood, flesh, brain everywhere. He blacked out. Days later he woke up in a makeshift hospital tent outside of Zadar.

Now in his white room, his gaze fell to the gold-framed painting of Jesus Christ, heart aflame. His wife insisted on hanging the icon. Christ peered down at him, hurt and beckoning. Why do you betray me?

He came home from work, left his black metal lunchbox by the sink, and turned on the radio. His routine was to listen to the early evening news. Cleaning the elementary school a few blocks away was the easiest job he’d ever had. On weekends he painted houses for extra, making more in two days than he did during the week.

His wife brewed coffee, the scent filling the small yellow kitchen. “I was beginning to wonder,” she said. “Where were you?”

“Walked a few extra blocks,” he said, pouring himself a cup.

“Don’t tell me you stopped by Jeanno’s for a slice of pizza.”

He shook his head, sighing and sitting down at the table. How he missed biscotti. He watched his wife clean out the lunchbox at the sink.

“You’re quiet today,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about Tito.”

“I have a plan.”

She threw the thermos into the sink. “No. No more plans.”

“You’ll like this one. We go back to stari kraj. The old country.”

“I’m tired of your plans. It was your plan to quit the service, to open the restaurant, to emigrate. Your plans.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Yes. I’m tired. I’m staying in New York.” She turned her back to him, faced the sink. Water gushed from the faucet as she washed, muttering to herself.

His daughters had dragged him to the western side of the island, where a villager had opened a café of sorts. Two beverages were available: soda or beer. A faded umbrella, along with a couple of splintering picnic tables and benches, had been dragged out. Of course, Vesna and Slavka ran off to swim as soon as they arrived.

His house overlooked the eastern side of the island. On this opposite side there was the old church, long abandoned and crumbling. Across from it, a horseshoe-shaped pier. He had moored the small Coast Guard boat there.

That afternoon he had three pivos, was just handed his fourth, the bottle warm from the summer sun, when Grubić spotted the skiff on the horizon. Leave it to Grubić, the village informant. The man not only garnered information about the citizens in the hamlet, he also enjoyed stirring up tensions.

The Old Detective had noted the vessel thirty minutes earlier, when it was only a speck on the horizon, well on its way to the Italian coast. In his head, he had wished the occupants well as they started their new lives. He was relieved he was nestled on the bench in the shade and on leave. However, by his third beer he watched the dot appear larger, his grip on the beer tightening. Idiots. They were heading for Premuda, mistakenly thinking they overshot Italy. Definitely not seafaring folk.

“Eh, Detective,” Grubić said, sneering. “I believe we have defectors approaching.”

All the men at the table turned toward him, awaiting a response. Through his sunglasses, the Old Detective caught sight of his girls diving off the bow of the Coast Guard boat he had arrived on yesterday. Along with the other children, they laughed and yelled as they splashed into the sea.

He shrugged. “Could be tourists sailing the isles.” Earlier a pair of tourists came off their yacht,

inquiring about a restaurant or store. The men at the table had held up their beers, and the foreigners had frowned; it was obviously not what they needed. “What’s the matter, Detective? If they’re tourists, so be it, but you’re not going to jump on that fancy government boat of yours and investigate?”

“Grubić, you wouldn’t know a defector if they socked you in the groin.” To this, the other men laughed, and he noticed their shoulders decompress. Perhaps he had averted the squall. In the distance the children squealed with delight, running in and out of the water.

“Wait a second,” Grubić said, “Isn’t it your duty to protect our homeland from this type of betrayal?”

“Tata. Tata, look at me,” as if on cue, Vesna called for his attention. The table of men paused as the small girl climbed on top of a pile of rocks close by and dove off, legs straight, as he had instructed her.

His eyes flickered between his daughters and the skiff. The small boat appeared to be going back toward the west, where it had come from.

The Old Detective clapped, smiling. “Can’t you see,” he said, turning to Grubić. “I am on leave, visiting my family.”

“There you have it, momci,” Grubić now addressed the men clustered around the table like figs on a branch. “Some take from the state, but feel no obligation. What would your superiors say?”

Putting out his cigarette, the Old Detective stood. “Come with me, Grubić. Let’s take care of this.” He strode off toward the Coast Guard vessel, Grubić close behind. When they got to the boat, the children scampered in all directions, not needing to be told. In his periphery, his daughters stood on the white-washed pier, squinting at him.

The speedboat motor roared, and they were off.

“We’re not going to hurt those people, are we?” Grubić asked.

“Now you’re concerned for their well-being, are you? How noble. Let’s hope they’re not the militant type and open fire on us.”

They rode on in silence, only the whirring of the motor, his hands clenching the leather-covered steering wheel. When they caught up to the skiff, his heart plummeted to his feet, but he pushed aside all emotion as he was trained. Goddamn Grubić.

The vessel was weathered. There was an eerie silence as he came alongside the craft, killing the motor. The waves smacked against the boat’s side. Inside, there were two men and a woman, all in their twenties. Their faces were badly sun-burned, their hair and clothes disheveled. They must have been on the sea for days. He glanced about. The small group rowed by oar, bloodied bandages around their hands. Empty bottles littered the floor. They must have run out of provisions by the second day.

The Old Detective radioed in his position, directing a colleague in the area to meet them. He jumped onto their vessel, the wood creaking from the additional weight.

“Shoot me. Kill us right now. I don’t want to wait,” the woman screamed. The men shushed her. The Old Detective tied the skiff to his boat.

“Sram te bilo. Sram. Shame on you. Shame,” Grubić yelled from the Coast Guard boat, pointing his finger. The woman sobbed.

“Everybody shut up,” said the Old Detective, shooting Grubić a look. The men calmed the woman.

“Listen. No one gets hurt if you follow my directions.” The Old Detective looked back at the island. Sun reflected off of the waves. A small crowd had formed at the water’s edge. He spoke quietly to the

three. “Where are you from?”

“Maspić,” said the woman. Her companions glared at her. The Old Detective shifted his stance, and the three backed away, cowering.

“I figured as much. Folk from the hills, not used to our sea. See that crowd there?” He pointed to the island. He bent down, so Grubić couldn’t make out every word. “Mainly children. A boat is coming to pick you up. Get on, without resistance. Tell them you’re glad to be saved, didn’t know what you were thinking trying to do this. Do not struggle. That is key. They’ll figure you’re idiots. You’ll get a couple of years in jail at most.”

“What are you saying down there?” Grubić asked from above. The Old Detective used the ladder on the side of the boat to climb back aboard. “To hell with it, Grubić. What do you think?”

“But what will you do?”

“I did my job. Now we wait. What, you want me to shoot people?”

During the wait, no one spoke. Within twenty minutes a larger boat appeared. The three people quietly were transferred on board. On the way back to Premuda, the Old Detective noticed his hands trembling as he grasped the wheel and adjusted gears. As he approached land, he spotted his girls jumping and clapping along with the other children. It might not have gone so smoothly. Next time…And then he stopped himself. Goosebumps traveled up his forearms. There was not to be a next time.

In spite of his position and membership in the Communist party, his wife had insisted the girls be baptized in the Church. It’s not that he hated the Church or had a gripe against the institution. It’s just that it didn’t put food on the table. In fact, with the protruding offertory basket circling each Mass, the institution demanded money.

But his wife loved the Church. “It gives me grace. By going to Mass, I can endure anything,” she had said early in their marriage. When a state apartment in the city of Pula was offered to him, he declined. In Pula, street lamps were everywhere and all was illuminated. At least on the island, their isolation played in their favor. The government didn’t bother with the peasants’ church habits. “If God helps them get through their peasant lives, then let them have Him,” he had heard officers say after a drink or two. Even Grubić didn’t bother informing on the church-going women and children.

It was their agreement, made early in the marriage: we stay on the island, so the wife gets the Church. His military career eventually landed him in Brioni, with an apartment in Pula attached as a perk. Of course, the wife refused to move.

The Old Detective couldn’t brush away thoughts of return. Branko’s prediction about the breakup being ten years away could have merit. Branko’s brother was an officer and a Party leader.

Within a few days, the Old Detective contacted an old military friend from the Tito days. Arsen, a Bosnian who kept one foot in the east and one in Astoria. Jovial, bustling Arsen, who some said was born with a cigarette in one hand and a phone in the other. They had agreed to meet in a café by the Bosnian’s travel agency.

He waited for his friend outside, at a table underneath one of the Grand Café’s aqua umbrellas,

watching the traffic on 30th Avenue. He hesitantly dropped the Swiss chocolate served with his espresso into his mouth. If his wife were here, she’d scold him. The diabetes. But she wasn’t here. He relished the sweetness as it melted away on his tongue. He picked up the demitasse cup, then turned it three times clockwise as he had seen the island women do in order to predict their futures. Peering into the cup, all he saw was the darkness of the espresso’s remains.

“My friend, the fortune teller,” Arsen said. “Ha, ha, ha.”

The two men shook hands, patted backs. They were comrades from their days on Brioni. However, since then, both had parted ways with the party. Arsen had opened up his own travel agency in Astoria, and played a hand in all things Yugoslavian now that they were in the new country. After small talk, The Old Detective settled into the purpose of the get-together.

“My son-in-law, Branko, says it’ll be at least ten years before it breaks.”

Arsen nodded, “My sources agree. They don’t call Croatia the silent republic for nothing. But they say it’ll be the Slovenians who run first.”

“I want to go back.”

“This is the third conversation I’ve had this week, my friend. I say go back.”

“You don’t think there will be…trouble?”

“I’ve been going back for years now, and so can you,” he said. “Remember that trip a few years back? You didn’t have one inch of trouble.”

The Old Detective perched his sunglasses on his nose, peering at him over his spectacles. “Do you even travel as yourself? I’m talking about going back as me, to live for the days left to me. To the island, not as some gussied-up tourist.”

Arsen laughed. “You think you are their biggest problem? Silence is golden. If you don’t say anything, what will they care if you come back? Did you leave with some big fuck you, skip out on your duty?”

The Old Detective shook his head.

“Your accounts current?”

The Old Detective nodded. His daughter Slavka and her husband had been looking after the house and boat. Twice a year he sent her money for taxes and local up-keep fees on the island. As Arsen and the Old Detective spoke, his mind wandered. His plans were gaining formation, a full-figured form in his mind. What at first seemed like an impetuous instinct to return to his birthplace now seemed like a viable option. Still, his wife. How to convince her? He had already asked so much of her.

“So with that, you must have mentally left that door open when you left.”

The Old Detective had never thought of it that way; he had left in part to help his daughter, and in part because he felt the pressure of the past closing in on him. On Premuda, they never let him forget his party affiliation, thought him a sell-out for opening up a restaurant and quitting his military career. But they never found out about the woman in Pula, and his wife was spared embarrassment, and for that he didn’t mind what the others thought. The Party never forgave him bowing out. They made it hard for him to earn a living. Every year they demanded more in taxes from the restaurant. And in military and Party circles, he had lost all of his friends. Invitations had disappeared.

As they were saying goodbye, Arsen said, “I almost forgot. Branko. Tell him his friend from Brioni,

Milan, finally got out of prison.”

The Old Detective nodded. “He’ll be glad to hear. Shame it had to be this long.” He thought of Milan, envisioning a young man who would now be middle-aged like his son-in-law. Shortly after they had emigrated, Milan had reached the ranks of officer. One night at a party, thinking he was amongst friends, he had belted out a national Croatian anthem. Unfortunately, someone informed and Milan disappeared. Later it was learned he’d been sent to a labor camp.

“Panti. Remember. Silence is golden.” With that Arsen entered the river of pedestrians walking down 30th.

He had trouble sleeping. The wife seemed to have no issues falling asleep, snoozing like a soft breeze stirring through the quiet room. But the past replayed in the Old Detective’s mind. In Long Beach, he was the innocuous janitor pushing a mop over linoleum, kindly nodding to the teachers who worked late and spoke to him in loud, slow tones, as if he were a nit-wit. He was glad to escape Tito’s Jugoslavija.

If he were to be honest with himself, lying in bed on those stuffy late spring days, Grubić wasn’t the real reason he left his position. He was used to assholes. No, he fled Pula. The day he appeared unexpectedly on Premuda, no one questioned his hasty leave from duty. If they had asked, he’d planned a nonchalant response. Something about having to be in Zadar on government business. Believable, given Zadar had been annexed by Italy until the end of the war. Tito liked to keep his eyes and ears everywhere. The real reason he stopped by Premuda had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with his mistress in the city, Marina.

He knew better than to get involved with a woman. A whore is one thing, a mistress entirely another. He had seen great men bitten on the ass by the lovers they took on, and he should have known better. The blossoming of folly.

Marina was too irresistible to deny. Not only gorgeous but educated and full of finesse. The way she removed her gloves, loosening one fingertip at a time while maintaining conversation with an effortless flow and a smile, that alone would bring him to his knees. Never mind the grace with which she walked into the ballroom of the Riviera Hotel, her patent leather heels clicking across the polished marble floors. Men and women glanced up from their conversations to acknowledge her presence. She was neither an island peasant nor a city slut. Their relationship unfolded naturally, never forced as it had been with his wife. They had been so young when he married her.

He was only twenty, just out of the war. She was seventeen, beautiful, but in a less intense way than Marina, with her light eyes and ashy blond locks. She was a decent woman from a Partisan island family like his own. She knew how to farm, cook, and tend the house. She was humble and pretty, not a loudmouthed ballbuster like so many beauties. Women who knew the power of their beauty were dangerous. His wife was oblivious to her worth, and this was why he chose her.

With Marina it was different. The courtship passed from drinks to coffee to dancing to walks in the dark streets of Pula, past the Roman amphitheater and into her tidy state apartment. Somewhere in there they won a dance contest doing the twist. Before long, they were having dinners together with his superiors, Marina eating alongside their wives. A woman like Marina by his side would be an asset. She agreed.

They concocted the plan together. It was simple. He wrote to his soon-to-be ex-wife and divulged his devotion to Marina. There was someone else. He loved another woman now. He wanted to be with her, to marry her. What could his wife possibly do? Of course, he wrote in the letter, he would allow her to live in the island house with the girls and his mother, until his Mama passed away, in exchange for her silence.

Marina and the Old Detective mailed the letter together, on their way to afternoon coffee by the riva. He received no response for over a month, and assumed the arrangement was understood. But one day he found a thick envelope awaiting him. The postmark was Premuda 57294. Certain of his spouse’s acquiescence, he stuffed the letter in his attaché case and went to Marina’s place.

They had finished making love in her darkened room, the curtains still parted, the sun just setting. Marina sat at the vanity table, brushing her long, black hair. “Dear one, how long before the divorce papers go through?”

The Old Detective was already dressing. They were to meet friends at the Riviera Hotel’s ballroom that evening. He took his briefcase and sat on the edge of the bed. He patted the yellow envelope with both hands. Bulky. “There are many papers in here. Maybe she has already filed them.” He pulled out a letter opener from his case, slid it across the top. He recognized her handwriting. A smaller letter fell out of the envelope. It was his brother’s messy printing. Sram. Sram te bilo. Shame. Shame on you.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he said to Marina. She peered at him in the mirror’s reflection. He remained sitting on the edge of that bed until the room was dark, the sun plunked over the horizon. He remained sitting, slumped, head bowed as Marina screamed insults, threw books, said she would not accept it. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said over and over.

He had underestimated the wife. True, a wife may not have much clout in this country, but the eldest brother who controlled his inheritance did. The wife had written to his brother in New York, and his brother had taken her side. You may not know God anymore, but I do. I cannot stand by and allow you to marry that whore while your wife and children and family suffer because of your whims. The letter was short but to the point. He had to choose: marry his mistress and be disinherited, or reunite with his wife and pretend none of this had happened.

As May melded into June, the Old Detective refined his plans. Each day became more than a day. It was another fraction of his life spent in a strange land. God bless America, he had always said, especially to his brother who had helped him emigrate. However, he yearned to be on soil familiar to his feet, soil where the roots that connected him to the earth ran deep. One month after Tito’s death, he approached his wife in the kitchen again.

“My plan is almost complete. I have put the properties for sale,” he said, not looking up from the oatmeal. It was quiet, with only the sound of cars passing on the street. The neighbor’s gate slammed. She said nothing, so he peeked up from his breakfast. She had stopped working. Leaning against the counter, she glared at him, her graying ash blond hair loose.

“You don’t have anything to say?” He said, looking around the room. “We will go, then?”

“Go where?” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Hrvatska. Croatia.”

“Where? Where in Yugoslavia?”

“Home. Croatia.”

“It’s not Croatia.”

“Home,” he said, pausing, pushing the bowl away.

“For me to work on the island?” She waved him off in disgust.

“And the city. We have enough for an apartment. Close to the cathedral. Close to doctors. Close to stores. No more work. We’ll be quiet, retired people. Pensionairi.” She had opened her mouth, but then stopped, lips still parted.

“And this apartment? It will be in the center? Close to Sveti Stošija?

He nodded, folding his hands in front of him. “You can go every day. You can pray in our language.”

She nodded, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Yes, yes. But you need to remember it’s not Croatia,” she said.

“It will be.” He stood and went to her.

It’s late at night, well past midnight, and even the Long Island bustle has halted. He likes this time of the day, when he can be away from work and people, and pray in bed with no demands placed on him. It is raining outside, so the street is quieter than usual. Raindrops hit the skylight above.

Through the blinds, the blinking yellow light from the auto shop across the way enters the bedroom, splashing against the cream walls in a rhythmic pulse. When they first bought the duplex ten years ago, he had hated that shop across the way and the annoying neon light announcing the owner’s name. Over the years he has taken comfort in the illumination it provides late at night, when he cannot sleep. Somehow, he feels not alone.

He watches his wife sleep. She’s on her back, mouth agape, snores escaping like distant train whistles. The crystal rosary beads glide through his fingers, his eyes focusing on the picture of the Christ on the opposite wall. He mouths the prayers in rote, without an ounce of concentration. His mind wanders and he cannot still it tonight. He looks at her. Her eyelids twitch, her small body lax. A car horn blares outside. Faint yelling. She does not stir.

He sighs, turning his attention to the painting of Jesus. There He is, staff in one hand, watching over a flock of sheep with that merciful look on His face. He puts the rosary beads back in their small box on the nightstand. “Please,” he says to the Christ, “Please help me be a proper husband.”

Their entire lives she has followed his lead. She has not questioned, even when it hurt, even when it caused her discomfort. When he decided to disentangle himself from duty, she complied. She never complained to the children or the neighbors. She never told them about Marina. She let them carry their illusions.

When he struggled with the drink, the women, the messy political alliances, she looked the other way, never scolding. When she had to deflect rumors of his infidelities or vicious ways on the job, she never made it his concern, containing the embarrassment within herself. When he decided to open a restaurant that required constant labor, she supported him, not sleeping more than five hours a night for years. When he decided to move the family to America to escape the regime, she nodded. This new announcement is too much. How much can a person endure? He understands.

They are approaching the end. He may be afraid, but she doesn’t seem to be. It’s as if she knows her

place is with the Lord. Certainly, He has made room for her in the next life. The Old Detective isn’t so sure about himself. He attends Mass daily, rarely has a drink, and does not dance with other women at the functions they attend. He has become an adequate husband.

He had told himself America was the last stop. After this, no more new ventures. But ever since the dictator’s death, thoughts of returning to his birthland has haunted him. This is his dream. How can she not accompany him at this point, after fulfilling four decades of the promise she made to him in God’s house?

A tuft of light hair falls in her face, covering her closed eye. She startles. He carefully moves the piece, and she stays asleep. He wears a white undershirt, a gold necklace around his neck. In the semi-darkness he rubs the dark gunshot wound on his arm, an array of healed cuts and gashes around his exposed neck and upper chest. She understands his hard life. He sighs, glancing again at Jesus the shepherd, a halo around His head. Leaning over, he takes the rosary out of the box once again. Outside a car speeds by, tires sloshing against the wet pavement. As he has done a thousand times, and will do a thousand times more, he clutches the small cross, asking Him for strength and help.

He tilts his head back onto the pillows, inhaling. Yellow light flashes across the room. He closes his eyes, imagining the wide expanse of his sea at home. The blues of the water and sky melding into one.